


Prearranged

by Sophie_skates_reads



Series: The Confounding and Chaotic Tales of Plisetsky-Altins (and how THAT Mess came to be) [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Otabek Altin, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Beta Mila Babicheva, Cute Kids, Help me how do I tag this?, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Mila Babicheva/Sara Crispino, Mpreg, Not Beta Read, Omega Sara Crispino, Omega Verse, Omega Yuri Plisetsky, Or at least not a lot?, Otayuriadvent2020, There's one almost smut scene but it isn't graphic?, preheat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28186707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_skates_reads/pseuds/Sophie_skates_reads
Summary: At 25-years-old, Yuri and Otabek have been married for four years, and have, from most outlooks (homophobic ones stalwartly ignored), the ideal relationship. Except they travel constantly, Otabek on tour and Yuri moving around to dance for all of the major companies. And the fact that they haven't seen each other in over a month, due to the stated reasons. And there's also the itty-bitty, teeny-tiny problem that Yuri kinda-maybe-might want the children they've agreed to wait two years to have.But it's fine, because they're home now, and Beka's tour is finished, and Yuri's contract with the Bolshoi is complete, and now they have all of the time in the world for each other-- and to help with Mila's new baby. Which won't be a problem at all. Because Yuri can wait two years. Even if he's never been accused of being patient.~The third part in the "The Confounding and Chaotic Tales of the Plisetsky-Altins..." series. Can be read as a standalone, but would probably be more enjoyable if read with its companions.
Relationships: Mila Babicheva & Yuri Plisetsky, Mila Babicheva/Sara Crispino, Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Series: The Confounding and Chaotic Tales of Plisetsky-Altins (and how THAT Mess came to be) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867903
Comments: 13
Kudos: 68
Collections: Otayuriadvent2020





	Prearranged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taedae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taedae/gifts).



> For Tae! Because you are a lovely human being, a wonderful friend, and an excellent beta who single-handedly saved the smut-ish scene! Thank you, my dear, I hope you enjoy this. ♥
> 
> This is a part of The [Otayuri Advent Calendar](https://twitter.com/hashtag/otayuriadvent?src=hashtag_click) event put on by the Superfan Discord server! This has been such a wonderful project and I'm so glad to be a part of it! Please check out the other days of Otayuri from the project's other creators! ♥
> 
> My apologies if this is riddled with typos; I got halfway through coding this in and accidentally _fucking refreshed the page_ and it all disappeared. So, I was _very_ frustrated, needless to say, re-coding the entirety of this 12K monster. So, without further ado, welcome to another rendition of "just fucking talk to each other!" Enjoy! :)

In life, and, furthermore, in relationships, there was an order to follow, steps to complete. One would say, if describing the latter, that the two who would later become a couple should _meet_ (for it was ideal to know this person), then grow close, and finally begin dating. If one wanted to skip to the later steps of the relationship (for, at this point, there _was_ a relationship to speak of) they would go in an order similar to the following: move in together, get married, and, if desirable to both parties, have children. Now, Yuri had never been one for orthodoxy in life, just as a general rule, and it made sense that his relationship’s progression was even less ordinary than he himself was. Getting married first, spending a heat together second, learning names a good week later, and only _after_ a pregnancy scare discussing what they wanted out of life, the Plisetsky-Altin couple was a chaotic storm of social rule-breaking and love. They had a plan, now, though, and it was a plan that most of society would agree was reasonable. Which seemed to be the deciding factor in the formation of Yuri Plisetsky-Altin’s fuck-all desire to spit into the wind and skip to their personal plan’s final step… a step that both he and his husband of four years had decided would not come for another two.

It started when they were halfway around the world from each other for six months. Now, really, this was not as drastic or unique an occurrence as it sounded: by the nature of their careers, they had to travel a lot, Otabek away on tours and Yuri signing brief, guest contracts with the foreign ballet companies of his dreams. By all means, they were accustomed to spending periods of time apart, but those intervals had never spanned any more than two months, in the past. Now, three weeks into six months of separation, not even a _layover_ in the same city, the longing for home and each other had strengthened dramatically. Maybe that was why Yuri had taken to, as he stretched, watching as Aliona spoke with her family at the beginning and end of every day. 

At first, it had only been a passing thing, a glance over his shoulder while Yuri fought the flush of movement out of his complexion (he consistently lost this battle) that happened to land on the tall, lean woman and the tiny, little girl in a pink tutu hugging her clumsily goodbye. Later, it became about Yuri’s curiosity at the family dynamic that allowed Aliona’s husband to walk with her to and from practice, their toddler between them, and then take said toddler to preschool. Quite the nuclear family, they seemed to be, and they intrigued Yuri, who had only ever known dancers to be either childless or to keep them away from rehearsal. That didn’t seem to be the custom in the Bolshoi, though, and within the first three weeks Yuri spent there, he could tell that it was a common occurrence to see Lilianna (the child’s name) at the start and finish of class, bedecked in winter boots, a puffy coat, and with a rainbow tutu poking out in between from her own just-finished ballet class. In any case, all of the dancers knew the child, and apparently her appearance was so commonplace that she felt comfortable enough to give them hugs even when her parents were at the other end of the room. Apparently, as well, Yuri looked enough like Svetlana from behind that mistakes happened.

“Hhmph,” Yuri’s head snapped up from where it had been dropped, hanging with the rest of his upper body as he cooled down in a toe-touch stretch. Carefully raising his upper body from its position parallel to his legs, the latter appendages splayed out on the polished wooden floor, Yuri looked around for the source of the light impact to his back, and the small ‘oof’. Standing behind him was Lilianna, looking surprised in her lavender, silver-starred tutu, obviously not having expected the target of her enthusiastic hug to be Yuri. 

She blinked.

Yuri blinked.

“Hello,” Yuri began, speaking just in time to be interrupted as Aliona noticed that her charge had slipped away. 

“Lili!” She called, tutting and hurrying over to where ‘Lili’ and Yuri sat-- Lili having just plopped her small self down next to Yuri. “Sorry,” she said, shaking her head at her daughter’s antics, on her face a look of fond exasperation. “She’s a wanderer-- I think she thought you were Sveta; she’s her primary babysitter.”

“It’s fine,” Yuri said, twitching the corner of his mouth upwards as Lili was lifted into the air and onto her mother’s hip, purple tutu fluttering and impossibly tiny, pink ballet flat-adorned feet swinging idly. Then, thinking he should probably say something complimentary about the admittedly cute child as her mother hovered a moment, evidently waiting, Yuri elaborated, “She’s sweet.”

Aliona laughed, “She’s a demon, but I’ll take it. Three’s just as bad as two, if not worse -- they learn the word ‘no’ and never stop using it --” she sighed theatrically, “if only the parenting books had mentioned it.”

Yuri’s slight smile grew incrementally; he was saved the trouble of answering, though, when Aliona continued,

“Well, we’re off; someone was promised a juice box on the way home--” Lili’s little legs swung excitedly and she cackled a gleeful shout of,

“No!”

Aliona sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling and then whispering, semi-conspiratorially to Yuri, “She doesn’t really know what it means yet, just likes the sound of it.” Yuri laughed and she grinned, “Have a good night.”

“You too.” Yuri put up one hand in response to Lili’s wave over her mother’s retreating shoulder, and caught a glimpse of a shy smile.

Yuri returned to his stretches, wondering absentmindedly if Lili would end up getting her juice box, or ‘no!’ her way out of it.

***

It was another few weeks at the Bolshoi before Yuri got what was apparently nicknamed the ‘initiation treatment.’ Now, by this point, Yuri had been coerced into some social activities by a few of the principles of the company, among them Aliona; it was a regular Tuesday afternoon, (the day of the week that, Yuri had learned by now, meant that Lili and her father showed up to class a little early and stayed through warm-up stretches) and Yuri formed one corner of the misshapen, no-longer-triangular stretch polygon on the floor. A few of the ballerinas were chatting, mentioning this or that about the costumes, or their dog, or how alphas exist solely to annoy omegas: the usual; and Yuri zoned out, chin resting on his folded arms as he daydreamed fluffy visions of walking home from practice that night to find Beka in his hotel room, armed with a bottle of champagne and the news he’d be staying for a week-- or, better yet, a month.

Yuri was broken from his pleasant, if quixotic, contemplations by a bump against his leg, and looked up just in time to catch Lili around her chubby waist as the attempted to step over his calf, lifting her over the formidable barrier that was arguably the smallest part of his leg and setting her down inside the deformed stretch triangle. Automatically, Yuri glanced around the room for Aliona or her husband, having had enough interactions with their daughter, by now, to know that she had no issue escaping her parents’, admittedly unrestrictive, holds. Spotting Aliona in a second stretch polygon at his back and her husband speaking with what sounded like a business associate through the open door to the hallway, Yuri abandoned the notion of returning the child, and nudged her gently over to Rebecca, who was sitting next to him and another babysitter of the toddler’s many. To Yuri’s surprise, though, Lili sat down right where she stood, scooting around on the floor until she faced Yuri’s nonplussed expression. She looked him dead in the eye, whispered a very serious ‘no’, and stuck her fingers in her mouth.

Yuri frowned, gently extracting her hand from between her little, pearly teeth, and pulled her closer to himself, for safe-keeping. He couldn’t have her sticking her hand in her mouth, again; he didn’t know what she’d touched.

(Later, once Lili was retrieved, Yuri was informed that she gave whichever dancer she liked some variation of his treatment, and thus, Yuri’s ‘initiation’ was complete.)

***

Yuri trooped off of the stage, a grin as wide as it reasonably could be plastered to his face despite his unwillingness to allow it to remain there. His _first show at the Bolshoi Ballet;_ that had been his first show at the Bolshoi Ballet. Another dream had been checked off the list, and the impediments that were pointe shoes did nothing to weigh Yuri down. He just had so much to be _happy_ about.

The performance had gone perfectly, it was true, and Yuri would relive it for _hours_ that night, but its passing also marked the beginning of Yuri’s fifth month with the company, and the euphoria Yuri felt at its successful completion was only doubled by the knowledge that _soon_ he would see his husband again. 

Backstage, Yuri was quick to answer Otabek’s waiting text; even though he’d had to get up at 5 am, Otabek had watched the livestream from New Zealand and his congratulatory text that was almost entirely comprised of exclamation points and emojis (and it was made all the more special by their exceedingly rare presence) was ready and waiting on Yuri’s phone.

Grinning, Yuri sent a row of sparkly hearts in reply, adding seven exclamation points in a secondary message. He’d just sat down at the small table he’d left all his things on, reaching for makeup wipes (because, as appealing as half an inch of paint plastered to his face was, he’d prefer to at least _resemble_ himself when Otabek’s inevitable facetime call came in), when he was approached. 

“Hi, Yuri,” Aliona stood there, bedecked in her stiff tutu and satin pointe shoes, with Lili on her hip. The effect was interesting; no one would really peg this severe, serene portrait of a swan as maternal, even when the context suggested it. She smiled apologetically, “I’m so sorry to ask, but can you watch her for a second? I have to find her father and the crowds are too big for me to bring her.”

Yuri nodded, accepting the child already in transfer onto his lap. With a word of thanks, Aliona was gone, promising to be back momentarily-- hopefully, she joked, her husband in tow. Now alone, Yuri looked down at Lili, the big blue eyes gazing up at him, eyebrows scrunched in unrecognition. Remembering the makeup caked to his face, Yuri did his best to smile in a reassuring way (for it was strange to see the little girl apprehensive: she was normally so outgoing) and, glancing around the area for something to entertain her (how _did_ one watch a three-year-old?), grabbed the slightly worn, stuffed bear from the top of his makeup kit. Otabek had given it to him after his _Nutcracker_ performance, only months after they’d gotten together and in the wake of their (or, more accurately, _Yuri’s)_ pregnancy scare. Since then, Yuri had made it a point to keep the bear present for every performance he gave, always visible on his assigned dresser in his peripheral vision, and, so far away from each other, now was no exception.

“Here,” Yuri began, holding the bear out to the little girl on his lap, who took it into her small (hopefully not sticky) hands. It was a calculated risk to let her play with it; normally, Yuri would prefer to keep the bear out of the danger resulting from letting it be played with by children, but without any idea of how to keep Lili occupied before her mother returned, Yuri would sacrifice the bear. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be hurt in the process. “Do you want to play with him?”

With only a touch of apprehension, Yuri watched Lilianna survey the bear, downturned lips lifting as she stroked its fuzzy, brown head in a less-than-coordinated motion. She smiled, tugging gently at the blue ribbon encircling its throat; relieved, Yuri echoed her expression.

With the bear as a point of entertainment, things smoothed out; after realizing who Yuri was, Lili reverted back to her usual, bubbly self, and let Yuri show her how to move the stuffed animal’s arms so it appeared to be hugging her. The play was rather juvenile, but, as the child was actually _three,_ and he hadn’t yet made her cry, Yuri took it as a win, amusement filtering through his system as Lili declared that the bear was telling her a secret and that Yuri had to “shhh!” until he had finished. Yuri, respectfully, shut up as he was directed to and spent several moments contemplating the best methods of wheedling the ‘secret’ out of his charge, before the silence was broken.

Lili frowned and pointed an accusatory finger at Yuri as his ringtone burst into existence, a picture of Otabek passed out with their two (they had adopted Yoka last year) cats curled up on his stomach and a cowboy hat on his head (Yuri indulged in the simple pleasures of life) taking over the screen. Yuri, grinning, had barely hit ‘accept’ before Otabek was being scolded to “shh!” over facetime. Otabek blinked, his smile fading into a confused twist of his lips at the sight of the child on Yuri’s lap. Looking as though he would like to inquire, but ever the gentleman, Otabek merely cocked an eyebrow at Yuri, a twinkle of amusement in his eye. Yuri returned with an equally silent but wholly dignified look, and Otabek laughed. 

Immediately, Lili’s attention was back on him, a bossy look on her round, chubby-cheeked face, and, in her most reproachful tone, said, “Be _quiet--_ Mr. Beaw is telling me a secwet!” 

Otabek’s eyebrows rose as he was scolded, and made a show of nodding seriously at the (to his knowledge) unnamed toddler situated on Yuri’s lap.

“Yeah, Beka,” Yuri chimed in, enjoying this thoroughly, “don’t interrupt Mr. Bear. He’s passing exceedingly important information, if you haven’t noticed.” His smug expression was dampened considerably when Lili shot him a glare, and he snapped his mouth shut obediently.

Otabek, on-screen, was laughing; he’d muted himself, the bastard. 

It was several seconds before Lili, her perturbation lessened, looked up at Yuri with an expression that could only be described as imperious. Importantly, she gestured for Yuri to move closer, and, amused, Yuri complied. Otabek watched them from the screen of Yuri’s phone (whose facetime call-time now read three minutes and forty-two seconds), the barest hint of a smile curving his lip as Yuri nodded Very Seriously as Lili’s confidant. No wheedling had been necessary, so Yuri realized; the child had planned to tell him that _he looked pwetty_ the whole time. Sufficiently certain that he was now allowed to speak without angering the deity that was Mr. Bear, as he had been dubbed, Yuri nodded seriously and whispered a quiet _thank you_ in Lili’s ear.

It was at that moment that Aliona appeared, entering the dressing room and approaching Yuri with her husband at her side. “Thank you so much for watching her,” she said, smiling as she scooped Lili out of Yuri’s lap, “you’re a lifesaver.”

“I don’t mind,” Yuri replied, accepting the bear that was handed back to him; it wasn’t as sticky as he had feared it might be, and he took that as a win. “We had fun. Didn’t we, Lili?” 

She nodded and her mother laughed, then, seeing Otabek watching over facetime, “Well, we won’t keep you any longer. Thanks again!”

As she moved away, Lili waved, as she so often did, over her shoulder. “Bye, Yuwi!” She called.

Yuri waved back, smiling. “Bye, Lili!” He replied, and made Mr. Bear’s arm salute as Lili disappeared through the door. Returning his attention to Otabek-on-his-phone, Yuri quirked an eyebrow at the expression on the man’s face. “What?” He asked, teasing. “Worried you have competition?” He batted his eyelashes, pouting playfully, “I can’t remember the last time you said I _looked pwetty.”_

Otabek sucked in a breath, the warm smile on his face returning to normal proportions, and rolled his eyes. “Oh no, whatever will I do?” He deadpanned, but his eyes were fond, twinkling, a look Yuri didn’t recognize in them.

***

It was later that night, after Yuri had returned home from the custom opening night celebration with the other dancers, just as he was getting into bed, that Yuri received a text.

Opening his phone where it rested on the nightstand, Yuri registered Mila’s name, a box of words and a picture beneath their last conversation.

 _Sorry I missed the live stream,_ Mila had said, _I was a little busy._ And, just beneath it, the photo showed Mila, pale and sweaty, auburn hair disheveled, grinning exhaustedly at the camera and holding a tiny bundle of blankets to her chest.

It would be hyperbole to say that Yuri’s eyes popped out of his head upon seeing the image, but only just. Yuri had never had much time for semantics, anyway.

 _Holy shit baba!!_ Yuri texted back, thumbs blurring in his field of vision as they moved, rapid-fire, over the screen. _You had her?! I WANT MOE PICTURES!!!_

 _More*_ Was sent as an afterthought, but by then Mila’s typing bubble had appeared and a close up of an infant was sent, face scrunched and pink, eyes shut with a shock of dark hair visible beneath a white beanie far too big for the small head it rested on. As Yuri stared at the picture, something warm bubbled in his chest.

He’d known that Mila was pregnant, had been the first one (Sara, aside) that she’d told, but he hadn’t expected her to give birth so soon. Technically speaking, the baby was three weeks premature, but going by the photos’ lack of chords and incubators, and Mila’s obvious lack of worry, nothing seemed to be wrong. Smiling widely, barely even conscious that he was, Yuri typed back several all-caps, barely coherent with misspellings, texts of congratulations. 

It was hard to wrap his head around, even as Yuri went through and stared at the scores of photos Mila had sent one by one. Mila had a kid, now. A baby, granted, but she was a _parent,_ now. It was wild.  
They’d used Mickey Crispino as a sperm donor, Yuri knew as he flipped through the pictures, coming across one with the man in question in it. Since Mila was only a beta, technically she and Sara couldn’t have a biological child together, but by using Mickey, the latter was able to be related to the baby closely enough that it resembled her. They both looked ecstatic -- tired, but ecstatic --, and, even once the text conversation had been closed and Yuri was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t quite get that out of his head.

***

Yuri looked over the theatre with mixed emotions. Today was bittersweet: as his last with the Bolshoi, Yuri was going to miss the people, the experience, and even the studios they practiced in, but at the same time, he was _so ready_ to be back home with Otabek, free to spend the next year together-- no traveling, at all. He’d had a small farewell party, the principles he was friendly with insisting on taking him out to a local bar, the night before, and, this last performance complete, his time with the Bolshoi was officially over. 

Yuri gathered up his things from his dressing area, zipping up bags and closing compacts, everything tossed unceremoniously into his bigger, designated makeup bag; costumes secured in hanging garment bags thrown carefully over his arm (for he was not fucking up these costumes), his rolling suitcase in which everything else was stored in his other hand, Yuri made his way out of the dressing rooms, walking down the hall that still buzzed with activity, sounds of laughter echoing from inside the other dressing rooms lining it.

Yuri had just reached the door to the parking lot when a voice called out from behind him, and he turned, recognizing the clumsy syllables and high pitch.

“I thought we’d missed you,” Aliona said, striding up to him with Lili bobbing along beside her, holding her hand. “We wanted to say goodbye before you left.”

Yuri smiled, carefully slinging his costumes over a railing and squatting down to allow himself to be hugged by the projectile in the form of a newly four-year-old.

“Bye, Yuwi.” Lili mumbled, her voice slightly muffled where her face was smashed into his coat. 

Yuri ruffled her hair. “Hey,” he whispered conspiratorially, “I have something for you.” Lili pulled her face away from his coat, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Yuri stifled a laugh. He leaned over to his suitcase, laying it down on the stone floor and rooting through his dance-related belongings before finding the bag he was searching for.

“Say thank you.” Aliona reminded her daughter when Yuri presented her with the gift, winking and mouthing it at Yuri, herself.

“Thank you.” Lili parroted obediently, for once forgetting her penchant for the word no, and wasted no time pulling the tissue paper out of the pink bag. She gasped when she saw her gift, pupils blown wide.

Yuri had found it walking down the highstreet, one day, glancing at the glass window fronts as he passed them until something caught his eye. The display was in the window of a children’s dance store, and the merchandise modelled by a small, female mannequin reminded him immediately of Lili. It was too cool not to buy, Yuri had thought, though he admittedly hadn’t much enjoyed how excited the shopkeeper became when she’d recognized ‘the famous Yuri Plisetsky.’

Aliona laughed out loud when Lili held up the [tiger-striped tutu,](https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/546446519/tutu-dress-for-children-tiger-costume) the packaging from the shop falling away in her delight. “Oh, that’s perfect,” she said, shaking her head amusedly at her daughter’s palpably enthusiasm (she was visibly vibrating with excitement), “between the fact that has a tutu on it and that she can ‘match’ the housecat,” Yuri snorted, “I’ll be hard pressed to get her to wear anything else, from now on.”

Later that day, while Yuri waited at his gate, he received a picture of Lili dressed up in her gift, hair in pigtails and black whiskers drawn onto her face. Her hands were held up as she roared. 

***

As a rule, Yuri did not enjoy transcontinental flights; fifteen hours of earaches, screaming infants, and the drunk man next to him invariably drooling in his hair, generally did not please him. The exception to that rule, though, the singular exception that only applied in a growing handful of situations, was when the transcontinental flight took him _home._

Yuri stumbled out of the bridge, head fuzzy and legs numb after far too long crammed into a tiny seat, a bag between his knees, and with bleary eyes regarded the world around him. Unremarkable, as all airports were; drab and grey in the early light of 4 am, and bustling with its eternal crowds, stragglers sleeping on uncomfortable metal chairs while they waited out their layovers and small children crying across the departure area to their frazzled and equally exhausted parents. Yuri turned his attention to the overhead signs, trying to remember what his baggage claim had been declared to be; it was certainly a letter that ended in an “ee” sound, but, given the silliness of the English alphabet, that didn’t help him much.

Yuri trooped dutifully to baggage claim, following the signs that directed A-E to the right, and betting that his luggage would be on one of the featured conveyor belts. Glancing around, travel-weary and more than ready to collapse into his bed with warm arms around him and, preferably, sleep for 15 hours, Yuri could hardly express his delight when one of the objects of his fantasy appeared, mirage-like, before his eyes. Exhausted, though he was, Yuri hadn’t seen his husband in six months, and there was _no_ earthly force that would stop him from catapulting himself into his arms.

“Beka!” Otabek’s _mmph_ was ignored and turned quickly into a warm, if slightly muffled, 

“Yura.”

“God, I missed you so much,” Yuri muttered in between kisses, struggling to decide whether kissing Otabek senseless or communicating his ecstasy to be close enough to him to physically be able to, was more important. “We are never traveling again. We will stay home and never have to spend another day apart.”

“Not even our wedding night?” Otabek replied, “That seems a bit excessive.”

“Stop it, you shit,” Yuri smacked him lightly on the arm, though the effect was negated entirely by the fact that his lips resealed immediately over those of the object of his ire. “We’re already married; have been for four years. And it is _not_ excessive. I’m never letting you out of my sight, again.”

Otabek huffed a laugh, nodding as he set Yuri back on his feet. “Okay, Yura, never.”

“Good,” Yuri replied, smiling, as Otabek plucked his abandoned carry-on from his hand where he’d grabbed it off of the ground, swinging it over his shoulder. Yuri’s grin grew as he was led by the hand, like a little duck, to his baggage claim (D, it turned out), because Otabek was all things holy and, on top of that, remembered obscure shit like which ‘ee’ letter was the one Yuri’s two leopard-print suitcases were currently revolving on.

They took a cab home, Otabek having had the forethought to flag one down, beforehand, and, as much as they both wanted to catch up ~~and fuck each other’s brains out,~~ Yuri was dead tired, and caught himself falling asleep on Otabek’s shoulder at least three times during their twenty minute taxi-ride home. Otabek, the deity that he was, only pulled Yuri closer and stroked his hair, letting him not-drool against his shoulder until they reached their building.

***

Yuri woke slowly, in degrees, and, even once he was fully aware of his surroundings, couldn’t summon the will to move. And why would he, when he was wrapped in blankets, limbs entangled with Otabek’s, and watching the man breathe in the soft, dappled light? Yuri lifted a finger and stroked a curl from Otabek’s forehead, running his hand gently through the strands and breathing in the scent of him. God, how many times had he daydreamed about this, when they had had a world between them and only frustrating, longing facetime calls to sustain them? Yuri might have been high on exhaustion and the thrill of seeing his husband, again, at the airport, but there had been a shred of truth to what he’d said: six months _was_ too long, and, truly, Yuri would be perfectly content if they weren’t separated, again, until one of them was laid in a coffin. And even then, ideally, the second would be no more than four hours behind. 

Running his fingers idly over the line of Otabek’s arm, lightly tracing random patterns onto his bicep with his nails, Yuri snuggled further into the moment, a lazy smile curling his lips as he let his eyes fall shut. It felt so right, lying there with Otabek, his husband, his love, his mate; if Yuri died then and there, he’d be a happy man. (Corpse? Semantics.) Still, though, when they went out for breakfast that afternoon (they’d gone to sleep at like 5 am; there was no way Yuri was waiting until the next morning to eat), something stirred in Yuri’s brain.

“Have you seen Mila’s new baby?” He asked, picking up his phone around a mouthful of waffles, because, for all their faults, American diners had _great_ 24-hour breakfast menus, “I have at least an entire scrapbook of pictures. Maybe more.”

“What?” Otabek asked, “The one who was born over a month ago? Only two weeks before I got back to New York? The one that Mila has plastered photos of all over the internet and that you’ve sent me everything sort of a caricature of? Nah, never heard of them.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, prodding Otabek with the syrup bottle, but didn’t have it in him to put on any grand display of pouting. “Whatever. I have to meet her soon-- the fact that that child has spent a month upon this earth without having been held by me is an absolute travesty. One that,” Yuri checked his phone as it pinged, “will likely be rectified within the week.” He grinned, shoving his screen unceremoniously into Otabek’s field of vision and pecking him on the cheek when he nodded, confirming Mila’s invitation to meet baby Lina two days from then. 

Satisfied, Yuri shot off a text to Mila in the affirmative, and returned to his waffles with zeal. He’d devoured nearly half the plate (and was _thoroughly_ enjoying the lenience a performance-free horizon extended to his eating habits) before he was roused from his trance-like state (they were so _fluffy--),_ Otabek poking him in the arm and drawing his attention to the counter a few meters from their booth. Yuri grunted at the interruption, eloquent as ever, and followed Otabek’s gaze.

He understood why Beka had wanted him to look, though, once he had, and Yuri watched as a little boy, no older than seven, pointed wide-eyed and excitedly into the display case that took up a significant chunk of the counter. The boy said something which Yuri could not make out entirely, but could tell by his tone and demeanor was something akin to _“wooow.”_

Yuri smiled, the part of him that loved the pictures he occasionally received of Lili with cake from her birthday party on her face, or of her hugging a stuffed tiger as though her life depended on it, enjoying the pure, unadulterated delight on the boy’s face as the waitress opened the case and removed an intricately-decorated cupcake from the glass row the boy’s gaze was fixated on. Yuri didn’t address Otabek until the child had received his treat and had walked with it to a table, moving so carefully that one might think his cake was a bomb or a treasure of epic proportions, only turning back to his husband as the boy’s father placed a small, blue and green jacket on the red, leather bench of a booth near theirs.

Yuri nodded, “Cute,” he said, taking a sip of water.

“Hmm?” Otabek asked, eyebrows furrowed. “Is a cake cute? It didn’t really occur to me, though I guess the icing is nice.”

“What?” Yuri asked, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“The cake,” Otabek replied, flicking his wrist in the direction of the display case, and the immense cake placed front and center, within it. “I don’t really see how it’s cute. It looks good, definitely something I’d recommend if you plan on exacting revenge on your ballet-season diet, but it isn’t really something I’d call anything more than attractive in a food sense.”

“Oh,” Yuri’s cheeks reddened slightly and he nodded, “yeah, I mean, it looks good and all, but probably not adorable, no.”

“Then why…?” Otabek wore an expression of sweet confusion, but, not quite ready to admit (for whatever reason) that Yuri had mistaken his object to be the little boy with frosting currently smeared all over his cheeks and grinning widely _(cute),_ Yuri forwent a response, instead taking another bite of rapidly-cooling waffles. If Otabek noticed Yuri’s dismissal, he didn’t remark on it, though Yuri did catch his eyes flicking around the diner’s patrons, before they left.

***

“Come in,” they were told upon arrival at the Babicheva residence by a weary-looking Sara. Keen to get out of the late-March winds, Otabek and Yuri did just that, shaking out their umbrella and stepping into the foyer without much delay, taking off their shoes so as to avoid tracking mud into the house, before they ventured any further inside it.

Sweeping his gaze around the hall, Yuri couldn’t help but notice that it was significantly messier than it had been when he’d last come over, though he imagined that, with a month-old infant who had yet to sleep through the night (and would continue not to for another few months, he was told), orderliness and the organization of the shoe rack by the door were far from high on the priority-list of new parents.

“How was Russia?” Sara asked as Otabek and Yuri disentangled themselves from coats and scarves. “We caught the tape of your performance-- you were great!”

“Thanks,” Yuri replied as he hung his jacket on the artfully mismatched pegs on the wall. “It was good-- too long to be gone, though.”

Sara nodded, “I can imagine: I had to go back to Italy for a month or so, last year, right before a performance: it was hell being away from Mila, even if it wasn’t as long as you two were apart.”

Otabek had opened his mouth to respond, likely to elaborate on the difficulties of being separated for such a long period of time, when a mane of disheveled red hair poked out through the doorway to the living room.

“You’re here!” Mila cried, hurrying into the foyer with the guest of honor bundled in the crook of her elbow. “I missed you so fucking much, asshole,” she said as she wrapped Yuri in a one-armed hug, before promptly punching him in the arm.

“Ow! What the fuck, baba?” Yuri whined, rubbing his arm.

“That’s what you get for missing the birth of your goddaughter!” Mila replied, but she was smiling, the bags under her eyes lightening as Yuri instantly leaned forward to meet the fabled child for the first time. He swore (and would later deny) that his heart melted the second he set eyes on her, her big brown ones blinking sleepily up at him as an impossibly tiny hand held firmly onto the edge of her swaddle. A cooing noise left Yuri in an exhale, and without a word spoken between them, Mila settled her daughter into Yuri’s outreaching arms. The quiet click of photos being taken were audible, but Yuri didn’t mind too much with his gaze fixed on the sleepy baby whose hand had just wrapped around his finger with a strength he couldn’t believe such a tiny human was capable of.

“Hello,” Yuri muttered, and Lina’s pink face stretched in a yawn. An _‘aww’_ was heard from over Yuri’s shoulder, and Yuri knew without looking that Otabek stood just behind him. “I’m your godfather,” Yuri’s voice was so low that he doubted anyone but Otabek and the child holding his finger hostage would be able to properly distinguish the words. “I’m going to spoil you so badly,” Yuri murmured, only then realizing that his lips were spread into a warm smile.

The mood becoming much too sappy for his taste, Yuri forced his gaze away from Lina’s drooping eyes, glancing over his shoulder to Otabek, who watched him with that familiar, unidentifiable twinkle in his eye. Yuri looked to Mila, who nodded, before holding the baby out to Otabek who took her with the skill of a practiced older brother and childhood babysitter. As Yuri watched, Otabek’s face softened until the gentlest quirk of his lips was visible, the look in his eyes a mixture of wonder and affection. They twinkled subtly, and Yuri was reminded of just how much his husband loved children. 

Behind Yuri, there were a few whispers, and Mila caught his eye. She sent him a knowing, annoyingly-imperious smirk, raising her eyebrows as she glanced pointedly from Yuri to Otabek and the baby held aloft in his arms. Yuri glared, and turned resolutely back around. He preferred watching his husband hold the baby to mentally arguing with Mila, any day.

***

Throughout the next three weeks, Yuri saw quite a lot of baby Lina and her mothers, and Otabek had taken to mentioning, just as Yuri left to walk with Mila down to get smoothies, or to jog with her with Lina in her special running stroller, to ‘kiss the baby for him.’ Of course, this was a perfectly reasonable request, and Yuri catered to it unerringly, but, as dim as the feeling was, it elicited a spark of… _something_ within Yuri. While he had an inkling of what that _something_ was, at the moment, Yuri was making his best efforts to avoid figuring out. 

He wanted kids, that he knew, and he was content to wait two years for them to materialize, satisfied with the plan he and Otabek had devised all those years ago after the unfortunate few months Yuri had spent under the terrified misimpression that he was pregnant. They were waiting until Yuri was 28, when things had calmed down, they weren’t traveling so much, and there would be ideal circumstances for a pregnancy and a new baby. It was an excellent plan, faultless, and, as far as Yuri knew, neither he nor Otabek felt any impatience for its actualization, or at least its beginning. Except, recently, Yuri had been growing less and less sure that they were _both_ satisfied to wait, that not a smidgeon of desire for a child in the now had slipped into their heads. 

He supposed it was normal: he was around Mila constantly, amply exposed to the sweetness and allure of a beautiful, new baby, privy to the inner workings of said baby’s life, the addictive scent that had yet to leave her scalp. _Of course,_ that made him want one of his own-- it was a core instinct: as an omega, he was naturally inclined to have children of his own, and helping to care for one certainly strengthened that desire. And maybe he’d noticed himself noticing kids more often, lately, growing amused at the antics of a more petulant toddler at the park as he ran by, catching a gurgle of baby laughter as he stopped in at the local coffee shop, watching absentmindedly as a young girl shrieked with delight and was tackled with kisses from a dogwalker’s puppy they passed on the sidewalk. Whatever. It was normal. 

It was just because he was only seeing the highlights of the parental relationship, Yuri decided one night as he stared at the ceiling, troubled by a recent bout of insomnia. If he got a taste of the tantrums and tears and three-am screaming, he’d go off his recent musings of what his and Otabek’s child would look like. (Brown hair, green eyes, Otabek’s complexion, and Yuri’s nose, if he was on the topic.)

So, maybe that was why he volunteered himself and Otabek to babysit for Lina while Mila and Sara went out for the night, luxuriating in their anniversary and an infant-less, uninterrupted night of sleep, for once. Secretly, Yuri wasn’t so sure they weren’t just staying in, curled up in pajamas, drinking wine, and falling asleep on the couch together at 8 pm, but he couldn’t really judge them if they were: he’d seen them a lot, recently, and _damn,_ did they look exhausted. So, naturally, what better way was there to convince Yuri’s mulish instincts that he _didn’t_ want a baby, yet, than by showing him how little sleep he would get, if he did have one?

“Are you sure you have everything?” Sara asked, hovering over where Lina laid sleeping in the rocker they’d brought over to Yuri and Otabek’s apartment for the night. It was an ironic question, Yuri thought, because it was evident that their living room now housed at least half of Lina’s nursery, for the amount of toys, blankets (baby-safe ones), and contraptions there were stuffed inside, not to even touch on the frankly ridiculous amount of milk bottled and waiting in the fridge.

“Yes, he’s sure,” Mila interrupted before Yuri could respond, “we’ve gone over the checklist at least three times, now. They’ll be _fine,_ I promise.”

“Yeah,” Sara nodded, though she still looked unconvinced, “but she’s only two months old--”

“And we’ve gone two months without a night out,” Mila replied, almost sternly, “don’t worry; everything will be fine, and we can relax for once!” Sara opened her mouth, but deflated under Mila’s pout. 

“Okay,” she said, relenting at last, and barely had time to utter a “bye!” before Mila had whisked her through the open door of the apartment, and out of sight, closing it behind her.

“Are they gone?” Otabek asked, poking his head out of the master bedroom (Yuri’s old one was now the guest room, and where Lina’s cot was situated).

“Yeah,” Yuri said, sighing and running a hand through his hair. “Only took twenty minutes.”

Otabek huffed a laugh, pulling Yuri toward him by the waist, “It’s their first time leaving her-- especially overnight; anyone would be nervous. I’m sure I would be.” Otabek pressed a kiss to Yuri’s cheek, and Yuri fought his mutinous thoughts away from visions of Otabek with an infant on his arm, one with his jawline and Yuri’s hair.

“Whatever,” Yuri muttered, moving away before his flush became too pertinent. “I’m just glad they’re gone; they deserve a night out, but they won’t get one if they never actually _leave.”_

Otabek nodded, heading into the kitchen and grabbing a glass from the cupboard. “Amen to that,” he agreed, before turning to Yuri as he grabbed the water pitcher from the fridge, “what are you thinking for dinner?” He asked, “Cook like civilized human beings or order in like heathens?”

Yuri snorted, “Is that even a question?”

“Right. Sorry, my mistake.” Otabek replied, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, “Heathens it is, then.”

Yuri gave a decisive nod before turning to look over his shoulder; a cry had gone up from the guest room, and his heart quickened slightly in anticipation. By tomorrow morning, he’d be over his little infatuation with all things _children,_ and this was the first step of the process.

“I’ll check,” Yuri murmured in Otabek’s direction, already crossing the living room to the open door the squalling infant could be heard out of, noting as he did so that Otabek relaxed back down into his chair at the kitchen table, already halfway risen when Lina had cried. 

Yuri moved through the guest room, coming to stop beside Lina’s cot. The baby was already pink-faced, her features scrunched as she closed her eyes and bawled at the top of her lungs. Her limbs flailed as much as she was capable of flailing them, which wasn’t much, and Yuri wasted no time in reaching into the cot and scooping the baby out, setting her against his shoulder and rubbing her back, shushing her softly. 

Walking back into the living room, Yuri noted with no small surge of pride that Lina was already settling, her sobs dying down to whimpers of discontent as Yuri moved through the apartment, speaking softly to her. As he reached Otabek’s field of vision, the man raised an eyebrow. “Already?” He asked, and Yuri nodded.

“I guess she just wanted to be held,” he shrugged, not one to question a good thing. (Okay, he totally was, but not _this_ good thing.) “So,” he continued, “where should we order from? Thai sound good?”

Otabek hummed, “I’m kind of in the mood for something greasy and American,” he replied, “maybe a burger? They’re good from the place down the street.”

Yuri nodded, “I like the sound of that,” he began to move away, again, feeling the chill in the apartment and wanting to grab another blanket for the baby he was pretty sure was drooling on his shoulder, before turning back to look at Otabek. “Can you get a shake for me?” He asked, knowing his husband would be aware which kind he wanted without having to specify. “I figure, if I’m breaking the diet, might as well have some fun, right?” 

Mischief sparkled in Otabek’s eye as he nodded, “Absolutely,” he replied. Yuri laughed at the look of quiet dastardliness on his husband’s face, getting the feeling he was married to a spy about to embark on an exciting adventure of arson, murder, and heroics, instead of one involving an extra 500 calories, purely for the hell of it. Otabek could be such a goof, sometimes, and _god,_ did Yuri love it. His laugh had startled Lina, though, who gave an unhappy squawk against his shoulder, and Yuri stood stock still, glaring daggers at Otabek as he smirked at him over the rim of his cup.

Later that night, Yuri and Otabek laid together, sprawled out across the couch with a movie on in the background, volume turned low so they wouldn’t disturb Lina, sleeping in the next room. Yuri pushed himself up onto his elbow to dip a fry from the box on the coffee table into the mint shake sitting next to it, the plastic lid off and dripping slowly onto the top of the takeaway box. 

“It’s like we’re teenagers,” Otabek murmured as he sat up next to Yuri, taking another bite of his burger after he’d spoken. “Babysitting and eating junk food, lying horizontally and watching a movie; it’s like a rom-com.”

Yuri exhaled a laugh from his nose, jostling the styrofoam shake cup in his hand and sitting up fully to return it safely to the coffee table. “That’s fucking ridiculous,” he returned, inspecting another fry. “But I suppose,” he continued, disinterest in the potato-product having him drop it back into its container as his voice took on a slightly deeper tone. “That would make me the poor, innocent babysitter, and you the big, bad boyfriend who sneaks over when the parents leave. Are you up for the role?”

Otabek’s smirk changed slightly, a nearly imperceptible narrowing of his eyes in the darkened room following suit. “If you are,” he replied, and even through the shadows, Yuri could see his eyes gleaming as his hands slowly fell to Yuri’s hips. “But what about the baby?” He asked, and Yuri knew that this was as much a real concern as it was a question for the act. 

“We can be quiet,” Yuri murmured silkily.

 _“I_ can,” Otabek returned, the smugness in his voice audible. “You…”

Yuri smacked him lightly in the darkness, laughing softly. “I can be quiet!” A quirked eyebrow. “... When it counts.” He amended finally, and was rewarded by Otabek’s chuckle.

Food pushed to the far side of the coffee table (it remaining in close proximity probably wasn’t the best idea, but at least this way the risk of ketchup and grease staining their floor, a take-out box knocked to the ground by a flailing limb, was reduced), Yuri let himself fall leisurely against the couch, his head resting lazily against its back as Otabek shifted, too, moving to hover over him.  
So opposed to those stupid, high school movies, things were taken slowly, though not nearly at the snail’s pace one of them usually employed to tease the other, conscious of the baby close by and the limited time she would allow them. 

Yuri let out a breath as warm fingers brushed under his shirt, trailing up his ribs in an extended caress. He hummed, the noise hitching slightly as Otabek’s hand caught on a nipple and twisted. Dark eyes sparkled, and Yuri sat up to ease the slide of his shirt over his head, letting Otabek fling it in a gesture out-of-character for him except when in the bedroom (and all that that entailed), away from them. Growing impatient, the air cooler directly against his skin, Yuri led Otabek down onto him, pulling his sweater less gently than Otabek had done over his head, sending it soaring through the air in the approximate direction of his own.

Lips on his neck, fingers tangled into thick, dark hair, one large, warm hand working its way steadily lower, to the curve of Yuri’s ass. It was only when Otabek’s touch left Yuri’s body, pale skin flushed in the moonlight slanting in from the windows, that Yuri groaned, as softly as he could.

“Beka,” he whined, voice not as unaffected as he would’ve liked it to be, “come back. What are you doing?”

“Supplies,” Otabek murmured, breath hot in Yuri’s ear. Yuri groaned slightly, nodding, and waited for Otabek’s prompt return.

From there things grew hazy, a whirlwind of pleasure and _more_ and the delicious stretching Otabek _knew_ Yuri couldn’t get enough of. He often liked to tease him with it, and when he pulled back for the second time, hands leaving Yuri’s body entirely, Yuri practically growled.

“Jesus, Beka,” he hissed, panting more than he would have liked to admit, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. “Stop with the fucking games. I’m ready; get _in_ me!”

“Hold on,” Yuri was pleased to hear that Otabek sounded equally wrecked, his voice throaty and rough as he replied. “Condom. Your heat’s in two weeks; it’s too close to risk.”

Oh. Right. For one, wild moment, Yuri had imagined the possible results of unprotected sex, of days on end of fucking with the reward clear in their otherwise befuddled minds.

But Yuri wasn’t left to dwell on that for long, because then Otabek was back on top of him, and it was safe to say that all coherent thought left Yuri in a wonderful, rushing blur.

It was late, when they had finished, later still when they’d cleaned up and gone to bed, but Yuri was just drifting off when he heard the telltale cry from the baby monitor (though he wasn’t convinced of its necessity, with the baby _right next door)._ Yuri groaned, rolling over and away from the sound, though he supposed they had been lucky to have gotten as much uninterrupted time as they had. Forty minutes earlier, and that could’ve been truly ugly.

“Welcome to parenthood,” Otabek muttered from beside Yuri on the bed, his face half smushed into the pillow. From his place prying himself up to check on the child, warm thrills shot down Yuri’s spine at his husband’s words.

***

They’d ended up getting up twice more that night, Lina crying for a bottle and then for a change, but by the time morning came, Yuri didn’t feel particularly terrible. Far from it: to his disappointment, nothing Lina had thrown at him during the night (explosive poopy diaper included) had done much more than ruffle his feathers. Even Otabek had remarked that he was ‘good at this’, and Yuri couldn’t tell whether he should be proud or dismayed. He split the difference: disgruntled.

They made it through breakfast before Mila and Sara came to collect their daughter, half an hour later than they’d said and bearing suspicious bruises in telling places. Sara had blushed at Yuri’s raised eyebrow; Mila had winked.

“There’s my baby!” The latter cooed as she spotted Lina, staring at the ceiling happily from her place in her rocker. Mila scooped her into her arms, kissing her face and tummy as though she hadn’t seen her in a year; Sara joined in on the fun after making up the distance between the table, where she’s been in the process of stealing a grape off of Otabek’s plate, and the living room, where her wife played with their daughter. Within moments, the infant’s infectious giggles filled the room, and Yuri found himself watching the mothers as they bounced and tickled their baby. He only managed to tear his eyes away from the trio for long enough to find his glass of water (and to catch Otabek’s strange expression?) and looked back just in time to see Lina spit up all over Mila’s shoulder.

Instead of being upset, though, Mila merely shrugged, murmured an “I should’ve expected that-- she’s just eaten,” and accepted the burping cloth from Sara without missing a beat, her open, loving smile never even wavering. 

Yuri _should_ have been disgusted by the sight of the baby barf, should’ve been nauseated at the sight and _smell_ of Lina’s puke all over Mila’s nice sundress, but, if the night had proven anything, it had proven that Yuri wasn’t; that, for all his groaning and nose-pinching, he felt a frankly alarming lack of revulsion at baby bodily fluids, and, along with Otabek, had taken to child care a little too well.

Instead, he found himself focusing on the look on Mila’s face as she cleaned herself up, shifting her daughter deftly into her wife’s arms. She was completely unperturbed by the staining of her yellow dress, by the smell now emanating from her, by the little, sticky globs of throw-up remaining in the ends of her hair that she dabbed at. Completely unphased, she cooed at her baby with joy in her eyes, grinning as Sara remarked something about wearing a new dress while handling their puke-machine, and shrugging with a “the risk is part of the fun” comment in return. The look of utter contentment she wore was one Yuri found himself wishing for, falling in love with, and that night, too, was spent sleepless, but for entirely different reasons.

***

Maybe it was because his heat was so near, Yuri thought desperately, two days later, trying not to remember what he’d dreamed about, and just _how_ aroused he’d been when he’d woken Otabek up for a round of midnight sex, before he’d gotten his head on straight. It had to be because he was only two weeks off from a three-day-straight biological breeding fest, that he was dreaming of himself pregnant and watching Otabek play with a little boy on the swing set of their local park. It was his instincts. Obviously. So why was he unable to draw his eyes away from the twin girls playing on that very same swing set that afternoon as he walked with his grandfather through the park, Otabek preparing dinner, at home, after shooing them out of the kitchen?

Yuri strolled down the paved path on autopilot, answering his grandfather’s questions with half a mind. Yes, he’d seen their old apartment when he’d visited Moscow. Yes, it had been nice to be in Russia, again. Yes, that terrible, little piroshki joint just off the pier was still standing, and no, Helga’s grandson ran it, now. (The piroshki were still abysmal, but he’d bought one for old time’s sake.)

“Hmm?” Yuri asked, forcing his eyes away from the five-year-old in the sandbox (he was playing with a plastic Tonka truck, his auburn hair almost the same color as the paint on the toy) and back to his grandfather once he’d finished muttering vaguely about badly-steamed cabbage. The man raised an eyebrow and Yuri hurried to sit beside him on the bench, realizing that he hadn’t noticed them stopping.

“Sorry, what did you say?” Yuri asked, making a conscious effort to reign in his instincts telling him to watch the children, his hormones screaming at him to _go home and make one._

Instead of answering, though, Nikolai merely followed his gaze, levelling a knowing look back at Yuri once he’d figured out the object of Yuri’s distraction. “Are you considering it?” He asked, “Your heat’s soon, isn’t it?” As if he couldn’t smell it through the blockers Yuri wore.

Yuri flushed, looking pointedly away. He shrugged, a jerky motion.

Nikolai chuckled, taking Yuri’s hand from where it was crossed over his chest and patting it with his old, gnarled one. “You two will make good parents.” 

Yuri couldn’t help but note the use of ‘will’ instead of ‘would.’ For some, stupid, hormonal reason, it made him smile. Softly, he replied, “Thanks, Deda.”

***

When they returned to the apartment, nearly an hour later, it was to the scent of borscht on the stove, and the sight of Mila and Sara on the couch, Lina lying on Sara’s knees.

Yuri directed a questioning glance at Otabek where he stood in the kitchen, wearing that ridiculous apron of his, and merely received a shrug in return. It was an instance they knew well, by now, the couple just showing up at their door, unannounced, but they normally bore food if it was near a mealtime, and a glance at the table showed a bottle of wine sitting atop it. Yuri echoed Otabek’s shrug, already hearing Mila proclaim “Because I can finally drink it!” in his mind’s ear.

Nikolai, naturally, took to the baby immediately. He knew Mila well, through all the years she and Yuri had spent friends, and was fond of Sara, too; though he wasn’t quite close enough with her to roll his eyes and call her a filthy brownnoser as he did Mila when she rose from the couch, offering a hand to the old man to help him sit, aware that his back had been playing up, recently. 

In no time, Lina was emitting cooing, gurgling noises in Nikolai’s arms, squealing as he poked her tummy in what were apparently all the right places. Not trusting himself not to make blatant heart eyes at the sight before him (Deda would be _so good_ with his grandkids--) and not liking in the least Nikolai’s pointed look at him when he’d caught him watching, Yuri joined Otabek in the kitchen, poking around the pot of borscht and earning a light smack to the hand for his efforts. Yuri sniffed in imperious disdain and lifted his nose into the air as he was herded back out of the kitchen, though he managed to snag a roll from the basket on the table before he was evicted completely. A glare burrowed into his back, and Yuri bit into the bread triumphantly, ignoring the sigh and audible eye roll from behind him.

They decided to eat in the living room, partially because the small party was quite enjoying passing around the baby in the close proximity, and partially because the dinner table was only equipped with four chairs. They settled in around the coffee table, plates balanced precariously on knees and drinks on coasters, all except for Mila, the current possessor of the baby, whose plate was on Sara’s lap, the woman’s own on the cushion beside her, and was being spoon-fed as she played the finicky game of successfully negotiating Lina’s bottle into her mouth.

“How old is she, again?” Nikolai asked, regarding the baby warmly.

“About 8 weeks,” Sara responded, beaming in maternal pride as she reached over and ran a finger along Lina’s cheek. She gurgled happily, and the entire room smiled.

“She feels younger, though,” Mila added, “it’s both like she’s so new, we can’t have had her for more than a month, but at the same time, I can’t imagine life without her.”

Sara nodded in affirmation, opening her mouth to respond when a phone rang. 

“Ooh, sorry, that’s me,” Mila said, rummaging in her pocket, carefully, to free the buzzing device from its fabric confines. Looking to Sara and seeing her laden with two plates and a fork halfway to her mouth, Mila transferred the baby into Otabek’s arms, who was sitting on her other side. Otabek took the infant easily, his eyes smiling at her as he rocked her gently to calm her from her tears, having begun at the loud noise. Yuri couldn’t help but watch as his husband shushed the baby, murmuring little, Kazakh assurances under his breath and translating her to one arm as he used his other hand to tickle her tummy, prompting a startled intake of breath and eyes blown so wide Lina looked like an owl, gazing up at him in a mixture of affronted incredulity. 

All too late, Yuri caught his grandfather’s eye, and stood up determinedly, going to grab something from the kitchen, at the smirk he was sent.

***

Yuri curled into the corner of the couch, swaddled in blankets and cheek mushed into the armrest as he watched the too-bright screen of the TV blearily. Snuggling down further into his blanket nest, Yuri pressed a hand to his stomach, groaning slightly as his innards rejected the movement and twisted more firmly around the poker currently winding its way through his intestines.

Otabek, from his perch in the armchair after having been evicted from the couch (for reasons not quite known to Yuri, himself) glanced up from his book. How he could read while the TV was on, even if the volume was low, Yuri would never figure out, but was endlessly grateful for at times like these, when he couldn’t stand Otabek being too close to him, but would positively _die_ if he left the room. Pre-heat fucking _sucked._

“Cramps?”

Yuri whimpered in response, nodding, and Otabek stood, neatly bookmarking his page because he was a gentleman and leaving a book open was nothing short of sinning, in his mind, asking, “Advil?” even as he moved to get one. 

Yuri nodded again, gratefully, and only had to suffer a moment of Otabek’s absence before he was back, a glass of water, small pill, and cupcake (they had baked them, the other day; Yuri had wanted something sweet and fluffy, and full cakes were too complicated) carried with him. He held them out in offering, and Yuri peeled himself laboriously from his den of covers, taking the glass and downing the pill. Feeling slightly better at the sight of the cupcake, too, Yuri managed to curl up against Otabek’s side, tugging him down next to him and relegating the task of actually holding said cupcake to him. Otabek huffed fondly, but other than that had no further reaction other than burying his hand in Yuri’s hair and settling in to watch TV.

Suddenly warm and sleepy, Yuri nestled his head into his husband’s thigh, pheromones turning contented as, as soon as he relaxed his mind, images of a brown-eyed, blonde-haired girl filled his head, the squalling of a tiny baby the soundtrack to his dreams.

***

“I hate this,” Yuri proclaimed, loudly, from his position sprawled on his back across the couch of Mila and Sara’s living room. “What the hell is wrong with me that I can’t wait two years? Why do I want it _now?”_

Mila shrugged, entirely too unconcerned for the severity of the matter, in Yuri’s opinion, from her position on the ottoman, folding one of countless onesies. “Maybe you’re afraid Otabek will leave you and want to make sure he can’t?”

Yuri threw a pillow at her.

It came dangerously close to hitting the stack of folded baby clothes on the table next to her, and, wincing sympathetically at the evil look Mila shot him, Yuri allowed himself to be hit in the arm with the pillow on its retaliatory throw. 

“Still, though,” he continued, not put-off in the slightest. “I _shouldn’t_ want it now. I’m still young--”

“You’re 26-- not exactly jail-bait, and Otabek’s my age!”

Yuri huffed an exhale, unappreciative of either Mila’s interruption or her (invalid) point. “But I have more things to _do,_ to _see!”_

“You don’t just die when you have a baby, you know. You take a year or so off, yeah, but you can still _do_ and _see_ things. I don’t see why you think this is the end of the world.”

“Because I want a baby and Beka doesn’t!”

Mila gave him a long, flat look. 

Yuri deflated slightly. “Because I want a baby _now,_ and Beka doesn’t.” He amended, mollified.

An exasperated eye-roll. “But you don’t _know_ that, do you? Why don’t you just _talk_ to him? Maybe he’ll even want the same things you do.”

“He won’t.” Yuri puffed hotly.

“Isn’t miscommunication the way you had a bunch of other problems for no reason?” Mila raised an eyebrow, shrugging slightly. “Like, I don’t know, thinking you were pregnant for a month and not saying anything to anyone who could tell you that you _weren’t?”_

Yuri glared, opening his mouth to reply, but was interrupted as Sara, bearing a wailing Lina, entered the room.

“Someone has ruined her onesie and needs both a change and a new set of clothes.” The baby was passed to Mila, who took her dutifully and pulled a green, butterfly-bedecked outfit from her pile. Her nose wrinkled as the telltale scent of infant defecation hit her, and she wasted no time in laying her daughter out on the portable changing mat and removing her fouled diaper. 

“See, this should not be appealing to me!” Yuri groaned as he watched Lina regain her dignity in the form of butterfly-patterned cloth. “It shouldn’t be appealing to _anyone_ sane, but here we are!” Though he was Highly and Rightly Distressed, he sat up and accepted the baby in his arms as Mila returned to folding, only wincing slightly at the roiling within his abdomen and thanking pharmacists everywhere that the ibuprofen he’d taken earlier had worked well. And, despite his anxiety over the subject that Lina herself (indirectly, of course, she was only an infant) had broached, Yuri felt his face relaxing as he cooed softly to the disgruntled child in his arms. She disliked the butterflies, apparently. 

Occupied as he was, Yuri didn’t look up as Sara re-entered the room, having left while Mila changed their daughter, for some reason or another, but returning, now, with a bowl of grapes in hand. Setting the grapes down on the table and relocating a stack of baby clothes from the cushion beside her wife to a spot beside the bowl, Sara smiled, glancing at Yuri, who was making faces at Lina, whose eyes were wide and curious, in return. “Aww,” she grinned, “you’re a natural!” And then proceeded to look very confused as Yuri wailed, flinging himself dramatically back against the couch cushions. His affect was lessened considerably, though, due to the fact that he was still in possession of Lina, and had to move very slowly and carefully, not wanting to jostle her.

Perplexed, Sara turned to her mate, who was now laughing. “That was the absolute worst thing you could’ve said,” Mila replied to the questioning glance levied her way. Turning to Yuri, she continued their conversation as though uninterrupted. “You really need to talk to him, though, Yura. You know you do.”

Yuri sighed, spending several moments staring into Lina’s small, still-considerably-pink face. “Yeah, I will. Tonight.” He muttered, finally, resigned.

***

It would've been like deja-vu, when Yuri entered his and Otabek’s apartment, that evening, except for the fact that the issue he was about to confront was the absolute reverse of what it had last been, and that he didn’t think his sanity could take the irony that he had once been in this exact same position, except he _hadn’t_ wanted a child, then. The universe was, decidedly, an _asshole._

“Beka?” Yuri called as he kicked off his shoes in the entryway, following Otabek’s muffled ‘in here!’ to the doorway of the master bedroom. 

This would be fine. Yuri knew that. He _knew_ that. The worst case scenario was that Otabek didn’t want a baby, right now; he’d tell Yuri that, and life could continue as normal, with, in two years, the long-awaited baby coming into the world. The best… Yuri wasn’t going to think too much about that, because it _wasn’t going to happen,_ and there was no use dwelling on fantasies. Yuri’s stomach twisted, and he wished he’d had the forethought to take another dose of pain reliever before he’d left Mila’s, his previous amount of ibuprofen quickly wearing off.

“Be-- what are you doing?” Yuri quirked an eyebrow as he took in the state of relative chaos that their bedroom was in. A brightly-colored, multi-textured mound of fabrics making a ring around the edge of the bed. A haphazard array of drawers hanging open and the closet door thrown wide. Otabek, in the center of all of it, picking his way carefully through the abundance of soft things on their disheveled, unmade mess of a bed.

Otabek glanced up at Yuri, his eyebrows creased guiltily as though he had been caught committing some heinous crime. “It’s chilly today,” he began, gesturing to the bundle of fabric he’d been easing away from its fellows, “I was looking for a sweater.” Yuri eyed the considerable amount of care Otabek had obviously extended in reclaiming a piece of the nest Yuri hadn’t even realized he’d built, and, between the (less persuasive) logical argument that Otabek _did_ need a sweater of some sort to brave tonight’s unusual chill, and the (more persuasive) guilty, repentant look Otabek wore as he regarded Yuri regarding him, Yuri nodded slightly. Instantaneously, Otabek relaxed, but ceased his efforts at working his selected hoodie from the nest, leaning back against the bed and wrapping his arms around Yuri as he moved to his side, dropping his head into the hollow of his shoulder. “What’s up?” Otabek murmured, running his hand along Yuri’s side.

Yuri let out a slow whoosh of air, reluctant to emerge from his hiding place, especially with Otabek’s scent gland so near his nose. Dutifully, though, feeling very much like a mature, responsible adult in that moment, Yuri did, his breath warming a section of Otabek’s skin as he lifted his head. 

“Yura?” Otabek asked, looking fractionally more concerned, now. 

“I’m going to say something,” Yuri stated, flat-out, before crawling into the nest, dragging his husband behind him, because goddammit if he wasn’t going to have this conversation in the one place in the apartment that made the heat twisting through his veins feel marginally more bearable. (Truly that place was wherever the hell _Otabek_ was, but, with both good options accessible, why not have the best of both worlds?) “And I need you to know that I’ve been thinking about this for several months, now: it’s not just my heat talking; and I want you to wait until I’m done to say anything. Okay?”  
Otabek definitely looked worried, now, but he nodded, eyebrows furrowed and hand wrapping around and squeezing Yuri’s own.

“Okay,” Yuri breathed. This was it. No big deal. Totally, one hundred percent, _absolutely_ fine. Honestly, who cared? Certainly not Yuri. “So, lately I’ve been thinking a lot about kids. And, uhm, I’ve come to the conclusion that I want one. Now.” 

Otabek blinked. 

Yuri blinked. 

Yuri rushed on. “And, I know, we said we were going to wait two years until we were more settled down, and I know this is the worst time, and we’re traveling, and we’re busy, and we have stuff to do, and I can _totally_ wait if you still want that but--”

Otabek, it seemed, had been unable to keep his promise to let Yuri finish, because Yuri was suddenly on his back, a warm body over him. Yuri didn’t think he minded too much, though, because he was being kissed deeply, almost aggressively, and there were hands far too eager to be the result of a normal discussion roaming his body. Yuri noticed, too, that there was something very hard between his legs. This something was not attached to him.

But it would be soon.

**Author's Note:**

> That was a reference to Otabek’s knot/dick, if it wasn’t obvious, and the implication is that Yuri will, very soon, have his wish granted. ;)
> 
> Now, this is unrelated to literally anything, but I hadn’t opened this document in like three weeks and after reading to the end of it, I encountered this: DICKILICIOUS. I don’t know what it is; I don’t know where it came from; I don’t know _what the fuck it means;_ but I do know that, through some sort of divine intervention, it is here, gracing my Google Doc, and wants to be a part of this story. So, I give you, with the _utmost fanfare,_ DICKILICIOUS!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos, if willingly given, make my little writer’s heart happy! ♥


End file.
